The Woman Inside

I overslept. Kept waking and dozing, then waking and dozing again, until finally I jumped out of bed and, as one does, reached for my phone and opened a mail from a colleague. As I took in the words, a hot stream flushed through my body, filled me. A second later – there’s always a slivered lapse of time in my discernment – I realised that what was flooding me inwardly was the feeling of anger.

Anger is a shifty sensation.

It always surprises me, like the arrival of an unexpected guest. My frustration with my colleague was about the difficulty of pinning down details, getting her to understand the specifics and particularities of the product that we are making together, the frustration of clarifying, fine-tuning, and enlisting her support. But anger, anger is personal. I’m irritated and frustrated with my associate as we sort things out. But my anger is not about anyone else, it’s about me.

There’s this woman, you see, who lives inside me, just under my skin, looking out from my eyes. This woman, who keeps me on the straight and narrow path of my own desires and dreams. When she rises, she rants: Do you need to remain embroiled in this situation, this relationship? Have you forgotten that you’re never trapped, never stuck, that you are always the master of your own change, big and small? Do you want change here? Hmm? Then let’s do it!

In the wake of anger comes a clearing, a reconnection with my Self, lightness.